The Definition of Hell
by Thalaba
Summary: Uber-bachelor Marcus Flint's grand quidditch career finale is cut short and it's in Katie Bell's hands to pick up the pieces.


**The Definition of Hell**

_Steam-slick and panting, their bodies undulated beneath a stream of scalding water, her pale flesh red and raw while his lungs burned, one large calloused hand fisting harshly into thick blond waves as his mouth latched to the severe bend of her throat. Marcus' hips bucked erratically, thrusting up in short jerks as the hand stroking her wet cunt kept Katie firmly in place. Her body clenched rhythmically around his cock, his fingers, her clit responding to every glide and squeeze, choked whimpers all he could discern beyond the blood pounding in his ears. Katie's teeth ground together, swallowing pleasured cry after pleasured cry that wished to escape her swollen mouth and enclosed shower stall, sterilized locker room and St. Mungo's hallway. Five sharp nails dug into the meat of Marcus' left thigh while her other hand faltered, searching for purchase wherever it could find: rolling, pulling her distended nipples in an effort to finish the ache between her thighs; slipping momentarily against the perpetually cool blue tiles; reaching ineffectually for his raven locks before grasping the taut muscle of his ass with a satisfied moan._

_Marcus lifted his head, shaking cascading water from his hair and eyeing the dark red raised mark his mouth had wrought along her pulse with a particular rush of masculine pride before Katie's clenching muscles had a series of guttural grunts ripped from his chest. From his curved position over her shoulder Marcus watched her bouncing, shifting breasts greedily, watched his hand move over her mound, felt his fingers caress his own cock as it jerked in and out of Katie's wetness. His other hand dropped it's hold from her tangled, sodden tresses and gripped her hip painfully, pinching her soft roundness as it moved up her torso to squeeze and palm those delectable tits, producing two deep thrusts as Katie fell over the edge. Her body pushed back hard, a high-pitched keen slipping through her teeth. Nails raked his ass and Marcus was undone, spilling inside Katie's fluttering channel while holding in his own roar of ecstasy with a deeply hissed explicative. _

_The water was suddenly annoying, the walls too close and too cold, the steam choking him. He couldn't_—wouldn't _let it end here, a shower stall in a hospital that had been_ his _prison for the past eight months. She was plastered to his front but Marcus could still feel himself slipping from Katie's willing body. Imagining his spunk dripping down those milk-white thighs had him grasping her cunt and chest with renewed vigour. Slipping over his satin sheets, hair spread out in a wave of wheat and honey, hands and legs becoming acquainted with the sturdy limbs of his four-poster: Marcus would take her home and she wouldn't leave his room for days._

_"Come home with me," he panted, taking deeper breaths if only to feel his nipples graze against her back. "The papers will be signed within the hour; my limo is already waiting outside." She knew all this already, his check-out papers only awaiting a Healer's signature for Merlin's sake. Marcus' mouth had begun it's descent back to the mark on her throat._ His mark. _Marcus had left a visible imprint on Katie's skin and damn it if he didn't want to make more. "We could continue this in more comfortable surroundings."_

_Her reaction was immediate and unacceptable and Marcus' teeth had clamped down instantaneously, possessively, much to her shock. Tensing, withdrawing. No! She was not pulling this shite with him now!_

_"Marcus!"_

_"Katie—"_

_"Let me go!"_

_She had forcibly removed herself from his embrace, pressing into the tiles, leaving bloody half-moon indentations on his thigh as her hands hastily turned the spigots, pushing water out of her eyes while refusing to look at him_—**Look at me!**--_refusing to touch him. It was ludicrous; he towered over her, took up nearly the entire stall. "Continue? This isn't going anywhere Marcus,_ **I'm** _not going anywhere. This—this was a one time thing. I thought you knew that." Her gestures were a little too wild to be believed but Marcus was choking on rage too great enough to care. He was expected to accept this and move on? After what they had just done? After watching_--needing--_her for so bloody long? Bitch!_

_The heat was gone and so was his ardour and all that left was pain._

_"Then I suppose I should thank you for your services Bell," he sneered, turning on his heel and pushing open the stall with the smack of a meaty palm, grabbing one of the large terrycloth towels roughly, not replacing the other on the bench as it fell to the damp floor. "Not surprising though; it's part and parcel with you, isn't it?" He rubbed the harsh material over his face quickly before wrapping it quickly around his waist, barely sparing a glance for the now smaller-seeming Healer with the flushed cheeks trying hastily to cover her wet body. "Your entire fucking life has been about serving the needs of others. I never thought you'd take a page from Wood's book though."_

_The full bottle of moisturizer slammed between his shoulder blades with precision accuracy and Marcus spun around with a snarl and wished he hadn't as soon as their _eyes locked. There was the fire, there was the spirit! There was that Godric-be-damned anger mixed with pride that had set his cock throbbing from day one. Lock it away, fool.

_"Get out of here you son of a bitch!"_

_"Gladly." Marcus slipped on his shoes and bundled the rest of his clothes in his fist. You've wasted enough of my time already."_

_He was out of the hospital before Katie even left the washroom_.

**Three Years, Eight Months Ago**

The crowd was screaming bloody murder, their cries louder than the annoyingly rainbow coloured fireworks and blow horns combined, but none of it reached a savagely smiling Marcus Flint. He was ready for blood! It seemed like it had taken years, centuries, to get to this point but here he was here, finally playing in the Quidditch World Cup. Marcus had been pushed aside by England's governing board for years: there were chasers faster than he was apparently, who knew more strategies, had better tactics and sense of fair play.

Bollocks.

None were as ruthless as Marcus Flint, none able to gage an opponent's weakness as quickly or accurately, none capable of working harder or longer: there was no other player in the UK as dedicated to Quidditch as Marcus Flint. Since leaving Hogwarts the former Slytherin had lived, breathed, ate, professional Quidditch. Finding a team hadn't been hard. Falmouth Falcons only accepted the fastest, roughest, meanest men who played the game as if they had nothing to lose, nothing else to live for, and, happily, Marcus fulfilled all requirements. Money he had in spades, an estate in Wales and a flat in London, so future stability was not a priority for the pureblooded heir. Handsome had never been an adjective used to describe Marcus; there was no wife, no girlfriend, and no lover to think about, only whores in abundance. No one had ever equalled _her_ so there were no worries at how the odd bludger to the face would impact his already unconventional appearance. All that mattered was the broom, the quaffle, the hoops, the points, and getting them before the other team. Falmouth appreciated his commitment and drive. The fans appreciated it. The ticket holders and sports editors and sponsors appreciated it. The only ones who didn't were responsible for filling national rosters and it seemed being the son of a Death Eater was enough to put a big black stroke through his name during nominations.

_"Doesn't send the right message." "We don't want any boycotts." "Could cause problems with the Ministry; we don't want too many waves."_ Marcus had heard all the excuses and then some and it all added up to shite and disgust in the end. Even with the mass appreciation and daft groupies throwing themselves at his dick, there were the internal policies to keep in mind—what every player who'd been in the business more than a handful of years kept in mind—and that was that forty was the end of the line. The Cap. Forty was when professionals either got used to watching games from the bench, accepted the friendly push into retirement, or found a new job within the Quidditch world before bitterness took it's toll. No player at forty years of age, male or female, had ever been chosen for the World Cup and at thirty-five bitterness was the least of Marcus' worries. He had no intention of becoming a league coach or a manager or whatever piss position was in style these days. He had lived on his broom and he would prefer to die on it. There was no giving up, there was no acceptance of the inevitable. But he wasn't stupid. This would have been his last year if not for friends in high places.

Terrence Higgs was one of the worst Seekers Marcus had ever seen, but what he lacked in talent he made up for in interest. . . and a mind like a fucking steel trap, especially when it came to galleons. Whisper in a few ears here, buy up a few shares there, and Marcus soon found himself the senior member of Team England. No shame. Marcus knew he deserved the position ten times over and if Ter liked to throw his money around then so be it. Fire and fame and bloody glory. He was going to have it all and fucking trounce Latvia's famed Keeper, Rosnak 'The Spider' Yubishlov. Flint had always had a big hate for Keepers.

Old Kingsley made his welcome speech while Marcus eyed his competition. He recognized Latvia's Seeker and the two Chasers from league games, knew basically what to expect. The opposing Beaters resembled blocks of granite straight out of Durmstrang—familiar enough as England's Beater's _were_ straight out of Durmstrang. And there was Rosnak, waving to the crowd on his specially designed broom which had been protested by players several times but had so far met all league qualifications and thus deemed fit for International play. Marcus felt his lip curl with sadistic delight. The Spider was going to get squashed today.

It was a bloody frenzy of brooms and balls, the Beaters in fine form and the rushing wind as cruel as a knife as Chaser battled Chaser for the privilege of tasting first blood. England's Keeper wasn't as quick as Rosnak but Her Chasers were sharper, faster, and Marcus led his two younger team mates in a series of barrage attacks: pass, throw, recover, cover sightlines, repeat, repeat, repeat! They were twenty-five points ahead after eight hours and neither Murichev nor Kenny had spotted the Snitch. It wasn't the trouncing Marcus had imagined and he was sickened to feel the beginnings of cramps swimming through his thighs. Unacceptable!

There was no thinking as he snatched the quaffle now, only that he—Marcus Flint, the best damned Chaser that had ever set foot on quidditch field—had to score more points now than he ever had in a single game before. This was it! It was the end of the line, no more World Cup after this game, no more international attention, no more opportunities! A storm had electrified his blood and soon the quaffle and the hoops were nothing but colourful blurs as the crowd cheered for more and Marcus scored and scored and scored.

Unfortunately, the bludger he hadn't believed possible caught him off guard and the ground was suddenly rushing up much too fast. A darkness smothered up the cheers and Marcus' time in the QWC was ended.

**Three Years, Six Months Ago**

Wherever he was it was too fucking bright. His head ached like the remnants of a month-long bender, in fact Marcus' entire body ached—Christ, he didn't lose another bet to Pucey did he? There was an incessant beeping somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear and if it didn't stop soon he was—

"Merlin, I think he's awake!"

Unknown and definitely unwanted hands were prodding him, touching him, and it finally hit Flint that he couldn't see what was happening—everything a large blur—or shout at the bastards to leave him the fuck alone as his tongue was currently coated with a gauzy substance, stuck to the roof of his mouth in humiliating fashion. He absolutely could **not** be where it sounded like he was at this exact moment. Groaning, Marcus clenched his eyes shut.

"Flint! Mr. Flint, can you hear me?"

_Kill me now._

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"Are you sure there isn't someone you would like us to contact?"

"There's no next of kin so get to the fucking point."

A part of him expected what was left of his graduating House to jump out and start laughing because if anyone ever really put together Marcus' version of Hell this would be pretty close. All that was missing was Wood in a tutu making out with the woman in front of him.

He was in St. Mungo's, had been for apparently two months wasting away in a damn coma. Worse news? Latvia won the fucking cup! Murichev beat Kenny to the Snitch and Marcus had missed his only chance. Done. Over. He was in no mood to be speaking to anyone right now but according to the Healers he needed to know the full extent of his injuries. But what was there to know? Marcus had received a Salazar sized concussion and fallen off his broom, probably broken a few bones if the continued throbbing in his torso had anything to say about it. He'd start running and be back on the pitch in a few weeks tops. After losing the QWC he needed to keep his presence felt in the national leagues which meant getting back on a broom as soon as possible.

The Healer cleared her throat, taking a seat in one of the many uncomfortable hospital chairs and crossing her legs as Marcus spared her a disgruntled glance. A few silver strands wound their way through her thick mass of honey hair, only noticeable in the horribly sterile light of the hospital room; otherwise, Katie Bell didn't look a day over twenty five and that was just wrong. His adolescent obsession (a short-lived obsession as Marcus had liked to tell himself) shouldn't look untouched by time. It was monstrously unfair and he cheered himself by deciding she must have married a Weasley and been living a pauper's life since graduation.

"Mr. Flint—"

"Marcus."

"Pardon?"

"Call me Marcus, Katie. We're not strangers and I'm sure it's humiliating using titles with a bloke who used to push you off your broom on a weekly basis." It was said without rancour, without any smug humour either; Marcus didn't wish to be there and just wanted to forget he ever had to look upon this untouchable goddess of Hogwarts fantasies—well…he'd forget after a leisurely bathtub wank. He was only human. Thirty eight years old, but still human.

"Marcus. Your injuries were much more serious than you seem to realize."

She went on to explain something experimental called surgery, how she had practically stitched together his nerves back around the bones in his legs she'd had to set. The fall had shattered his knees, both femurs, torn his femoral artery—which, if not for the superior skills of the trainers present, should have killed him before he was ever transported to St. Mungo's. A cracked hip, three broken ribs, and _'an incredibly scary skull fracture'_ all contributed to his two month stay. "Your hard head probably saved you." _Was that supposed to be funny?_ It did give him a snort. That and the fact that he'd been pumped full of Skel-E-Grow for nearly sixty days. She became staid when finally coming to the matter of his spine.

His spine.

This apparently was why Katie had been called in rather than the more senior Healers. Halfblood as she was, Bell had spent some time studying in Muggle hospitals and they had just as much trouble with spines as wizards. He'd slipped a few vertebrae (whatever that bloody well meant) and there were more complications with nerve damage that regular spells and healing potions just weren't made to correct. Something called _physical therapy_ was his only recourse now. He would have to learn to walk again, would have to learn how to seat a broom again. His flying was shot and so was his career.

Marcus stopped listening after that realization, dismissing Katie with a bark loaded with bite, feeling a black storm cloud settle over his hospital bed.

His career was over.

There was a noise in the hallway that roused enough of his attention for Marcus to look up and see Oliver Wood give Katie a lip-lock kiss of greeting.

Hell. Marcus Flint was in fucking hell.

**Three Years, Four Months Ago**

Well bugger that.

No one worked as hard as Marcus Flint in any given capacity and he'd be damned before he'd let a little thing like a spinal injury and some Muggle muscle exercise put him out of action. There was no giving up; there was no acceptance of the inevitable. If he did have a life of condemned leisure to look forward to he definitely wasn't doing it sitting down. You better believe he'd walk again, ride and fuck just like his old self. He'd harass and heckle the leagues and make a general nuisance of himself and drink Terence under the table—not that that was difficult, the ponce.

But he wasn't stupid.

To be back in full, perfect physical form Marcus would have to rely on someone else—Katie Bell—have to see her and be touched by her and smell her day in and day out, and even though he attacked the program she created with gusto the pain of being around her (and in due course Wood) would sometimes equal the pain in his body after Healer Bell was done with him. Fuck, he thought it would be easy. As the days went by it got harder and harder for Marcus to tell himself to get out of bed, to yell at himself to let the aids help him in to the wheelchair—constant levitation spells were a waste of magic apparently and this contraption would force his upper body to move, or so said Katie. Marcus' body _was_ in pain, muscles and bones and joints relentlessly screaming at their sudden use after such a length of inactivity and a near-mutilating accident. In his continually overreaching and superior mind he had never believed Katie when she told him the process would be difficult.

"You're doing well Marcus. It takes time though so stop being so hard on yourself."

Hard on himself? Marcus had never been so hard in his life! First the pain of near dead muscles but then having to submit himself to deep tissue massages, having her hands rubbing. And rubbing. And rubbing. Christ he was nearly forty fucking years old, he should have had this under control! So he got hard on her: mean, taking out his torment on Katie with words and growls and a general black demeanour that she didn't deserve but he couldn't help and it was just like school again. Without the zits. And the pleated skirts.

Wood though seemed to appear at the drop of a hat, he and his _Witch Weekly_ worthy smile and easy laugh for Katie's staff. He'd aged well and Marcus would sometimes see the Scot lift Katie and spin her around like a little doll—Flint was petty enough to smirk when she'd punch his shoulder, her expression evident she thought little of this display of affection. She wouldn't deny Oliver her mouth though and that would have Marcus pawing himself at night, jerking off to the imagined image of that mouth put to better use. _Yes Katie girl, you've got something real down there so don't be scared to put a little force into it. Yes, yeah use that tongue, it seems to have all the right moves anyway_. And then a handful of her hair…

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Perceptive, able to gage an opponent's weaknesses at a glance, Marcus was aware that something wasn't quite right with his Healer near the end of his second month of recovery. Everyone raved about how far he had come, his progress and determination—everyone being all the nurses and aids on his ward since besides Ter's one pity sit-in and that embarrassing meeting with the falcons manager which had led to thrown bed pans there hadn't been anyone to see Marcus in a non-job related capacity. But while the accolades came in from everyone that didn't matter Katie's constant stream of encouragement stilled and soon disappeared, her temper as bad as his own and dark smudges appearing below her shiny blue eyes. Marcus didn't ease up.

"Missing Wood are you Katie?" he grunted, moving himself slowly along a set of stationary bars, holding himself up through pure dint of upper body strength. It had been a long day, his thighs were killing him, and he couldn't carry off the mental fortitude to deal with the blonde's sombre looks. He didn't have the fortitude to deal with much of anything these days. "Haven't seen him around much lately." Which was true. The twat had given the personal visits a break this week.

She shot him a dirty look from her end of the bars, stood next to the wheelchair waiting to bring him back to his room. That was a nice thought: _"Do you need any help getting into bed Marcus? I think we could both have a rest after that long workout." "Oh no Ms. Bell, I think it's time I had my hands on you."_

"Let's leave him out of this Marcus."

Him? Not my boyfriend, my fiancé?—Merlin forbid—Not even Oliver? _Him?_

"Must be hard having him travel for all those endorsements. Ter told me he was the spokesman for Nimbus' new broom polish." Lie, but that had always been a running joke in the Slytherin locker room, Wood and his broom polish.

"Wherever Oliver wants to go is no concern of mine or yours," she snapped, a flash of fire in her face that had been missing before. She was stalking over to him now, white healer shoes moving quickly down the runway and into his personal space, words humiliating. "You were doing much better yesterday Marcus, you're tired now. Let's finish for today and pick up again tomorrow."

"Bugger off Bell!" he sneered, trying and failing to shoulder her aside. "I'll get to that chair myself if I have to crawl to it."

"Don't be so damn stubborn! Just give me your arm and we can both be done with this." Katie attempted to become a crutch under his right arm but Marcus was having none of that. She'd gone and undermined his abilities, his fucking torturous hard work, spoke to him like a damn child!

"Fuck off woman! I'll do it myself!"

"You're recovering Marcus! You were in a coma for two months! Just let me help—"

"Get away from me—"

His grip slipped on the rail amidst the swearing and pushing of limbs and before either knew it they were in a heap on the floor, Marcus' heavier weight toppling over Katie's and only his quick reflexes and strong physique keeping him from crushing the smaller woman entirely.

"Oh fuck! Oh Godric, Merlin Marcus are you alright? Can you feel your legs? Oh Christ are you bleeding? Should I call—"

"For fucksake Katie, will you shut up?!" Marcus was grunting, the whisper of a chuckle painted on his smug mouth as he leisurely lowered himself down, mirth bubbling over at he sight o her eyes widening like saucers and her long-fingered hands pressing against his chest. "I haven't felt so good in years love." He was hot and hard and heavy, the ridge of his erection snug against the vee of her standard hospital slacks and it was by sheer masculine pride that Marcus held back the moan that threatened while he watched Katie bite her lip. He didn't try and stop the natural thrust of his hips or the searing wink of one emerald eye. "Now that's better don't you think?"

"Get. Off. Me."

But Katie didn't push back…well not with her hands at least. His grin became savage when he felt the slight lift of her hips come up to met his but that may have been too much as his prim little healer's nails dug into his thin shirt. _Oh no love, you aren't going anywhere._

"Is that what you're missing Katie?" Marcus whispered, lowering his mouth to touch her ear. "How long has it been since _he_ had you as wet as I think you are now?" There was an intake of breath on her part and he pushed the advantage, deliberately biting the flesh of her earlobe. "Have you been home touching yourself while he's been away? Pumping those lovely fingers over and over?" Another thrust, another gasp. "Not those fingers you spend all day touching me with? Does Oliver know how long we really spend—"

"Oh stop talking about Oliver!"

Air rushed from his lungs as Katie grasped his face, angling his chin where she wanted it and brutally crushing their lips together, her tongue forcing it's way passed his teeth to tangle with his own.

"Katie—"

"Shut it Marcus. Isn't this what you want?" She lifted her leg up around his ass, pushing their lower bodies closer and leaving him to grip her shoulder fiercely. "Isn't this what all men want?"

There was a fire to their kiss, teeth scraping and nipping for several moments until something in her words finally sunk in and Marcus forced himself to pull back, no matter how much he damned himself for a fool. Lush curves and smooth skin, the reality so much better than any fantasy and here he was stopping because she sounded sad and fuck if he wanted Katie underneath him feeling _sad._

"Katie, Katie stop."

"What? No just—"

"What's wrong?"

**Three Years Ago**

Back to business. She hadn't wanted to talk—had very vocally not wanted to talk about why she had sexually assaulted him during a therapy session and then pushed him away without an explanation—and Marcus had never learned the finer points of communication so ignorance was deemed bliss and they stopped talking to each other altogether.

Progress was still the order of the day and now Marcus had a new anger to fuel his fury. He'd been used. Yeah he may have instigated it but Katie had made it real and he could only imagine and seethe about how she had went home and thrown all that energy into onto around Oliver Wood—But the bastard still hadn't returned to St. Mungo's. Four months and not a sign, not a word of his stupid accent, and Katie's cheerless looks continued pushing Marcus to the snapping point even if she had transferred most of the exercises over to another healer. It was the seeing her and not seeing her and the fact that he had touched her and that now he couldn't touch her.

Even if he had made a complete recovery and was going to walk out of this prison under his own steam. Hell. Marcus Flint was in fucking hell.

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"What are you going to do now that you can go home?"

Marcus looked up from where he was stretching on the floor, working out any final kinks from his last session with a silly little nit that wouldn't know a quaffle from a snitch but had asked that same question in five different ways, each with a bit more flash of cleavage and higher octave in her voice. When he was brutally clear that she should get that idea out of her head a pout followed…and then a request for an autograph. _Damn groupies_ was what Marcus had first thought before remembering how groupies had been a staple of his life for the past twenty years.

Katie.

He watched her sit down on the edge of the bed—not his anymore by the end of the day—and wondered why she would be asking the personal questions now. They hadn't been alone together for a while and she wanted to talk now that he was leaving?

"Drink most likely." He stood up, wiping at the sweat beaded on his bare chest. "I haven't had a pint in half a year."

"I'm serious Marcus," she watched him with a little exasperation and what he would have hoped was a little desire (he had a ripped body so why wouldn't she?). "We all heard your row with Hatfield so I can guess that you've chucked Falmouth but," Katie rode over his muttered grumbles, "but you still have all that talent. Marcus I'm sure there'd be a lot of players who'd want to hear from you." He was shocked.

"What, open a school? Become a fucking coach? Are you mental Katie?"

"What would be so bad about that?!" she raised those lovely hands of hers in a confused gesture though her eyes showed more than a little frustration and Marcus was struck with the thought—even through his bitterness—that she'd had a conversation similar to this before. "What would be so wrong with giving a little of yourself, your time—"

"I'm not a martyr Katie, I'm a chaser! I always have been!" The towel was thrown away with a hiss. "I was best! I was supposed to have died on my broom!"

**"You didn't die Marcus!"** Katie jumped up, angry now. "Merlin, you're still that blind, pig-headed Slytherin! You were roughed up Marcus, not broken but definitely not the best anymore!" He grabbed her elbow when she went to push him, his reflexes as good as ever, and squeezed, pausing but not silencing her tirade while his mouth formed a tight grimace. "Are you going to live in the past now for the rest of your life? The great Marcus Flint, award winning chaser and world famous quidditch player attending all the Ministry parties and having his picture plastered over every fucking rag! You're not a despot Marcus, no matter what the papers say; you're no different than any other player out there but I can't see you playing that 'Famous' card for the rest of your fucking life especially when you have something to offer!" The blonde was panting, face flushed and chest heaving but Marcus only swallowed tightly.

"Is this speech for my benefit or Wood's?"

"You have more determination and drive than Oliver ever had!" and now she did land a heavy blow on is shoulder, spitting. "I've watched you Marcus and you can walk again! You still don't realize how extraordinary that is and I…I had to put you back together…"

From furious banshee to sobbing mess, Katie collapsed into his arms and a surprised Marcus was left to safely seat them both on the bed, flabbergasted to see the tears flowing down her face. "You were so broken and there was—there was blood everywhere! And no one told me it was **you** when they owled me in!"

"But what should that matter?" Marcus attempted an awkward laugh that fell flat while she slapped his shoulder, his arm lingering around her waist. How the bloody hell was he supposed to deal with this?!

"I had to perform the spells and…and you never knew! You never knew how I felt back in school—you wouldn't even look at me back then, and I was dying inside thinking you could bleed to death right in front of me!"

Marcus' brow furrowed as she continued; his throat clenched and it was as if his heart gave one mighty thud. How much time had he wasted? Blind? Pig-headed? This…this was completely ridiculous.

"…and now you're leaving," she sniffed indelicately, trying to move away though his hand was an iron clamp on her hip.

"Yeah," he replied expressionlessly, staring straight ahead.

"And I'm a bloody mess."

"Yeah," he cleared his throat. "Me too." Marcus shook his head and blinked, suddenly knowing he was not leaving her like this, couldn't leave her. _Never…_ "Help me get cleaned up."

"…What?"

"Your my Healer Katie. Help me."

"But—But you're leaving."

"Yes."

"…Yes."

**Present Day**

"Get you're head out of you arse Fintan and maybe you'll make a play Corinne **can't** get around!"

Harmless childish laughter followed, giggles and back slapping as his last group left the pitch, brooms hung over shoulders and a general feeling of accomplishment in the air. Marcus watched with a crooked grin, nodding towards the recognizable parents waiting beyond the fence and several watching from the stands.

He felt good. He'd made good. Didn't need the money of course, had used up a chunk of his own in the beginning renting the field and advertising, securing time for his students—the term still made him grimace—but things had worked out and apparently he did have something some people wanted, and it wasn't his money or a quick shag or to break is fucking heart as quickly as the fall had broken his spine—

Grin transformed into a murderous scowl as he lumbered over to the benches, jamming the quaffle back into place and slamming the lid down before heading to the change rooms—some buggers like to leave gum and wrappers and other trash laying around no matter how many laps Marcus would make everyone perform later—the hot August sun beating down on his battered visage. Three years and he still couldn't stop thinking about her, stop reliving that one perfect moment before everything had gone to hell. Marcus should have hated her--_had_ hated her—but couldn't keep it up when he remembered her crying for him. **For him.** And then she had given him the best advice, the best kick in the ass to stop living in memories and do something constructive with his life now that the first part of it was over. He had spent more time than was wise thinking over her little speech, resigned to the idea that some of it had had to come from fighting with Wood—who had died from a wholly unexpected aneurysm just last year—whom had never let go of his ego and notoriety, his legions of Puddlemere fans and media attention. Living in the past. And she hadn't wanted that for Marcus.

The field was getting parched, the summer's drought let alone the army of children he had out here every second day taking it's toll on the grass. He'd have to check with maintenance about the shoddy lawn care—

"Hello Marcus."

He had looked up and taken three more steps before realizing who was speaking, boots stumbling slightly in the dirt.

"Katie."

She had her hair in a ponytail, a few wisps fluttering around her throat and temples, no more silver than had been present the last time they…well. A simple sea blue sundress fell below her knees, revealing legs he already knew to be strong and supple and beautiful.

"What are you doing here?" he asked simply with only a hint of bite. Marcus watched her throat move as she swallowed, waiting to hear the general reply: _"I wanted to check in." "I was in the neighbourhood so…" "I've heard you've done some great things with the kids."_ He didn't expect what she did say.

"I missed you."

He took a breath, one coming in as slowly as the first left him. Missed?

"Now?"

"Always."

"Really?"

Whether she sensed it or not Marcus had walked forward, backing her into the locker room door. Before she could make contact he'd reached over her shoulder and pushed the door open. There was no where to go but into the dim room. "Because you don't have anyone to save now?" She shook her head once.

"This was never about him Marcus—"

"Oh I think part of it was," he ground out, giving her a small shove into the closest locker, looking down on her with half of his brain surprised that she was letting him. "Did Wood get the same pep talk about talent and—"

"Oliver wouldn't make the time to listen," Katie cut him off, tone soft and cheeks pinking. She raised her hand and, without breaking eye contact, slid the elastic from her hair. Marcus refused to reach for her. "Oliver came to me looking for one thing. And that soon became old for him." Flint's eyes darkened. Old? _"Isn't this what all men want?"_ Wood had wanted to relive the good ol' days and Bell just hadn't been that same little teenager?

"What do you want Katie?" Marcus took a deliberate step back, his voice low and hoarse. "What do you want? Because **I'm** too old to start guessing at this point!"

And then his arms were full of her, full of her softness and roundness and smell, her arms tight around his neck as she forced their mouths sealed, those same gorgeous legs leaping up to wrap around his solid hips.

"Don't guess, don't—Just touch me, touch."

Adjusting quickly to the weight being thrown at him, Marcus banded one arm down Katie's side, palm flat to her backside, gripping, while the other hand went under her arm and to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair and tugging like he wanted, straining. "Bite me. I kept the bruise for weeks, the girls thought I was—Oh Marcus!" Releasing her ripe mouth with a groan Marcus brought his teeth down in a sharp nip before closing them completely over the line of her throat, cock jumping at the whimper that Katie burrowed into his own shoulder. The image of her walking around St. Mungo's, showing off the mark he'd left almost as if she had been proclaiming herself as ihis/i and yet Marcus hadn't known, hadn't seen—His whole fucking life had revolved around missed opportunities!

Laving the new indentation of crooked teeth, sensitizing her skin to his touch, Marcus ignored the disappointed moan as one hand left her butt to hastily push down his track pants and boxers, using the lockers for leverage then to bear them both to the floor.

"Take me Katie," he panted, shoving aside her dress with a hard glide over her thighs, inciting a shocked half-laugh when her panties became nothing more but torn cloth under his insistent hands. "Ride me like I used to ride my broom. Take me. Give me something new to remember."

He hissed as one of Katie's hands encircled his cock, her other rubbing over his chest, his neck and up into his hair.

"Fuck!" She forced herself down, tight wet walls encompassing him, squeezing, hot, and he couldn't stop the following thrust. She was breathless but Marcus wouldn't let her lean down for that desperate kiss. His thumb moved along the crease of her groin, pushing under to rub her clit. "That's it, ride me Katie. Take it. Take it!" Her hands moved of their own accord to pinch her nipples through her dress and bra and he let out a harsh grunt. She was a visual feast with her eyes closed and mouth moving, moaning, breathing his name.

He could still recognize heaven after so long in hell and Marcus wasn't losing any more time.

"This isn't once Katie," his hips thrust, Katie crying out. "This isn't a one time thing."

"Yes!" she yelled, panting loudly. His cock thrummed with the power of her clenching channel and he surged up, stomach muscles lifting him off the floor so he could claim her lips again, whispering into her mouth.

"This isn't a one time."

"Yes…Yes."


End file.
